Work Text:
Dark house, by which once more I stand
Here in the long unlovely street,
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,
A hand that can be clasped no more –
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.
He is not here; but far away
The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly through the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.
In Memoriam – Lord Tennyson
He cannot sleep. There’s a crushing weight on his heart, and that makes it difficult to even breathe. Sleep eludes him. He closes his eyes and all he sees is him, just as he says his final goodbye, him, falling down. All over again. He used to consider himself a brave man; now he is afraid of closing his eyes.
After hours of useless and painful tossing and turning, when the night turns into early morning, he finds himself walking. He walks in a daze, not really knowing why or where he is going.
He knows only when he finds himself in front of that door. In Baker Street.
The sky is still dark, a dull mass of gloomy, insipid grey. Soon it could start raining; the air is cold and it makes his eyes sting.
(He doesn’t want to admit that he’s crying again.)
He stares at the door, at that number. 221B. It didn’t just mean home. It meant that he had finally found a new life, a life of adventure and mystery. In particular, it meant he had finally found a special friend, a person who had filled the void he had always felt deep in his heart.
It hadn’t been easy, living with him. But it had become natural and necessary, as essential as oxygen to breathe or food and sleep to continue living.
Being with him made his heart beat faster. The thrill and excitement of solving mysteries, risking their lives, protecting each other. And then, there was something else too. But he had been blind for too long. It had taken time to see that it was just him that made his heart beat faster.
He remembers holding his hand, running in the night. He had been scared then, but not as much as he is now. He was with him then. They were fugitives then. But they were together. And he just knew they would have found a way out. He would have solved the mystery. As always. He could always solve all the mysteries. Find the missing piece. Unveil the truth. Only he could be that clever. And he trusted him.
His heart was beating so fast back then. But he remembers telling himself that it was just because they were running.
Now he cannot feel the same anymore. He cannot clasp his hand anymore. The last time, his hand was still warm, but he wasn’t the same…he wasn’t. That is one of the memories which kept sleep away.
Staring at that door won’t bring him back. He’s far away. Too far away, somewhere he cannot follow.
His cheeks are wet. But it’s only the cold drizzling rain, he tells himself. A soldier does not cry.
Suddenly he can hear the noise of city life beginning again. The day breaks. He stands unmoving, glassy eyes fixed on that closed door.